Code 900
by Littlefoot the Warrior
Summary: Sophie Calder is an MP who's assistant has worked with others on a top secret project, causing assassins to attack the government building. After the run-in, there is so much more to their relationship than they know. Sherlock/OC
1. Of all the Men

**Inspired by the story Enchanted by BethXP, I really wanted to write a story that I can ship myself with Sherlock :D **

**You can also ship yourself (another reason why I'm dedicating this to BethXP) by thinking of your name when you read my name :)**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>"Of all the men in the world, you fancy <em>him?<em>" Your friend Allison says to you, confused. You finally told her about how you fancy your mutual friend Jason, and you tell her unsuspecting that she loves him.

"What's wrong with that?" You retort, crossing your arms. You both are at CocoUK, a little café in central London, where the two of you work as researchers for the Liberal party MP Jane Lawson. It's lunch, so the two of you got bagels and coffee. You have your long brown coat with the brass buttons wrapped around you, your teal bowler hat on your head, and your long brown hair pulled to a side braid.

"Sophie, Jason is a Class A prick. He's shagged half the Conservative interns, and he's making his way through the Laborers." She says to you. You simply roll your eyes.

"Allison, I'm twenty-six, hardly young enough to be young and naïve like the Conservative interns." You take a bite out of your bagel.

"Yeah, you're also the oldest researcher in the flipping British Government! Grow up, Sophie, get a real job. Become an MP or something. Just move on with your life."

"You really want me to get over Jason, don't you?"

"He's an MP, he's ten years older than you, he's a womanizer, and you don't even like him!"

"I think you're in love with him, and you're just jealous because he actually likes me too. You just want him for yourself." You say to her with a sharp tongue. Standing up, you throw at her one last mean look before leaving the café.

Turning the corner, you nearly run straight into somebody.

"Jason!" you exclaim. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there!" You pat his shoulder. He's not wearing an overcoat, despite it being January and snow all over the ground. He's only got his suit on, black hair slightly disheveled. It makes you wonder if what Allison said is true, and that he's always shagging somebody.

"Hello Sophie. Would you mind getting out of the way?" He moves you aside by the shoulders, then breaks into a sprint. Another man comes running around the corner into you. However, he doesn't apologize to you, just keeps running after Jason. A shorter, blonde man runs into you after the tall, black-haired man runs after Jason.

"Sorry!" he says to you, then runs after the taller man.

Confused, you make sure that no one else is running around the corner. It's all clear, so you continue back to the office building where you work with the MPs.

-.-.-

Things are tense between you and Allison, as you two work in the same office. You haven't seen Jason since lunch, and you begin to worry that those men chasing him were doing something bad to him.

At six-o-clock, you switch on the news in the office. It's routine for you to turn on the news every hour, to check poll standings and other politics. Jane comes out of her office into yours and Allison's, and sits on the edge of your desk. The female news anchor talks about a political scandal.

"At noon today, Conservative MP Jason Northwood was arrested for the rape and murder of ten women in the last year." The news anchor says, and a picture of Jason comes on the screen.

"What?" both you and Allison yell at the TV. Jane seems happy that theres no competition now for the marriage law bill.

"He has been immediately removed from office, and an emergency election is to be instigated for a replacement, Liberal or Conservative." Says the anchorwoman.

"Sophie! You could run!" Alison looks at you across the desk.

"What? And lose my best researcher?" Jane smiles at you, but you ignore her and run out the door.

You run straight for the office of the head MP of elections, located across the atrium that reaches up through all six floors.

"Ah, Sophie." Says Rodger Hill, the head MP of elections. "You didn't knock."

"I'm sorry Mr. Hill, but I just saw the news." You breathe, whipped from running so fast. "I'd like to run to replace Jason Northwood's position."

"I'll put in a good word for you, but the vote is not by the council, it's by the voters of his region. Are you up for campaigning?" He asks you sincerely.

"More than anything!" You exclaim happily. Mr. Hill hands you some sort of application, and you take it with warm hands.


	2. Foreign Trade Polices

******Here's Chapter 2! It's really long... but I had a lot of fun writing it. Enjoy!**

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><p><span>2 Years Later<span>

"Matt, I need that report on foreign trade policies!" You shout as you enter your private office. You won the election and now have two Liberal party researchers and interns of your own. You find your job very difficult at times, but you love being in politics.

"Matt!" You shout again, as you sit down in your desk chair. Your other researcher, Tabitha, is sick today, so Matt has double-duty. "Matt, I need that report!" after a minute of no reply, you get out of your chair to enter the intern office, but the door is locked.

"Matt, honestly, I can fire you! Don't make me do it!" You yell through the door. You would never fire him, but you need that report _now_. You shuffle for your keys. Finding it, you unlock the door and push it open. A large pool of blood is on the floor, blood dripping from above. Fighting the urge to throw up, you lock up. Matt's mangled body is pinned to the ceiling by knives, a bullet hole through his forehead.

You scream, and run back into your office to call the police on your cellular. Jane runs into your office, and you tell her what you saw. She looks over, then comes back to comfort you.

In five minutes, the police arrive to inspect the scene. One of the detectives comes up to you, still shaking in your office chair.

"Detective-Inspector Lestrade, at your service." He holds his hand out to you. With a very shaky hand, you take it, and greet him. "I have a man on the way who might be able to help solve the case, but he'll have to talk to you. Are you okay with that?" You nod at him, and as if on queue, a tall man with black hair enters your office. You recognize him from somewhere, but you can't quite put your finger on it, even when an equally familiar man walks in behind him, short and blond.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." He doesn't offer you his hand.

"John Watson, his colleague." The blond man holds his hand to you, and you shake it with a weak hand.

"Ms. Calder, you found the body five minutes ago. What about the crime scene have you disturbed yet?" Sherlock Holmes asks you coldly, already making his way to the other office.

"All I did was open the door." You reply, glaring at him for being so insensitive.

"John, stay with Ms. Calder while I look at the body." You shudder when Sherlock says "body" as you realize that Matt is actually dead. He turns away from you and walks to the intern office. John takes the chair in front of your desk and sits down next to you.

"So." John starts, "Do you know if he had any enemies?" John asks you.

"No, I don't know." You shake your head. "He was always so nice. Never said anything rude things to anybody, or anything." You bend your head down, so John can't see the tears falling down your face.

"Does he have family?" He asks you.

"He's got a girlfriend, I've heard him talk about his mother…oh, I'll have to call his mother." You bury your face in your hands. "The only person who could hate him would be his sister, but he's never said much about her."

"Do you know where she is?"

You shake your head. At that moment, Sherlock comes into your office and approaches you.

"Where's your other intern?"

"At her flat, she's ill." You reply, wiping your face. Sherlock seems like an arrogant git, and you don't want to appear weak to him. When you think if him being a git, something inside your head clicks. "You were the man who was chasing Jason Northwood on the street! You caught him, and that's why I have my job!"

"You're welcome. Now, back to the dead body in the office, did you hear anything? There is a bullet through his head."

"No, I was at a parliament meeting. All the MP's were there, the only people in the building today were the interns, researchers, and other basic workers. I only got back a minute before I went in to check on Matt."

"Well, I'd place the time of death at about three 'o' clock, just two hours ago." Sherlock says to you.

"I need a drink." You stand up, only to sit back down out of light-headedness.

"Lestrade, check the building to make sure that all interns, MP's and researchers are still in the building. If they aren't, go to their addresses. I thi–" Sherlock is cut off by a scream from down the hall. You suddenly find the energy to get up and run down the hall after Sherlock, to Jane's office. Jane was still with you, and the two of you look through the open door to see Jane's intern, Imogen, standing in the open doorway, looking up at the body of Allison pinned to the ceiling with a bullet hole through her forehead, just like Matt. "Let me through!" Sherlock directs you, Jane and Imogen. He inspects the room.

"Oh my god." John says, catching up to them.

"Everyone, shut up, I'm thinking!" Sherlock pulls out a small pocket magnifying glass, inspecting the ground. He stands up, then inspects the bottom of Allison's shoes. You're surprised to see Allison dead, and your heart feels empty. She was your best friend for the last two years, and seeing her dead leaves you feeling empty and alone.

"Sherlock–" Lestrade came in, but Sherlock shut him up.

"I am deducting, Lestrade, I need perfect silence." His dedication to his work inspires you, but he seems like such a jerk that you still dislike him. "Okay. Matt's body has been there for two hours, leaving a large pool of blood, correct?" Sherlock asks, but he doesn't wait for you to answer. "This body is fresh, theres no smell, and _look, _only a couple of drops of blood. The body was pinned to the ceiling only minutes before your scream was heard." He says to Imogen. "The murderer is still in the building."

"Call for backup!" Lestrade yells into his radio, and the officers leave the room to seal the doorways. You clutch your chest, scared to be in the same building as a murderer. Although, you think, you did fancy a murderer/rapist who worked in the building.

John tries to comfort Jane and Imogen outside the door, while you just stand shell-shocked in the doorway, watching Sherlock look at the body.

"She was my best friend." You say, your voice hollow and empty. Sherlock hardly glances at you, and continues looking around the room. "She told me about some research she was doing. Said it was going to change everything. I asked her about it, but she didn't tell me what it was."

"Did she speak with Matt much?" He finally speaks to you.

"Only at lunch. Matt always tried to leave early for lunch, and always took with him some paperwork that I didn't give him. Whatever it was she was doing, Matt was probably working on it with her."

"Does Jane know?"

"Of course, she assigned Allison the project. Every project must be repeated daily until completion…" You answer. The both of you share a knowing look, before a gunshot is heard. Before you hear anything else, Sherlock has run past you out the door. Jane lies on the floor, blood already pooling out of her chest. "Oh my god!" You scream. Sherlock spreads his arms to protect you from any further attacks, but there are none. John is already off, looking for where the shooter was hiding. Other MP's and interns poke their heads out the door, but close them again when they realize that there are dead bodies around.

"Where does Allison keep her project files?" Sherlock says to Imogen. She leads the way inside, eyes bright red with tears. She opens a file cabinet under Allison's desk, and lets Sherlock look through. "no…no…no…no…" he says continuously, while looking through the file names. "None of these raise any flags. Her computer!" he leans over the desk to look. It's password locked, but Sherlock simply types something in and he is in.

"How do you do that?" You ask.

"She wrote it on a sticky note." Sherlock pulls a sticky note off the computer monitor saying "cupcake45#A" You nod, agreeing to apparently nothing, and watch as he pulls up file after file after file.

"Looking for a specific one?" You ask, Imogen still crying at her desk.

"Just anything password protected. Wait–" he scrunches his eyebrows when he finds a word document titled "Goodbye." He opens it, and you lean in to read it. Your short brown hair just barely brushing Sherlock's shoulder.

The letter reads:

_To whomever finds this,_

_I'm going to die. I've already accepted the fact. This document is my farewell note. Jane has given me a project, and the both of us did not now at first the magnitude of what it is about. My researching this was a mistake, and now they're after me. I have shared too much with Matt, who himself investigated on his own. I have no idea as to when they will come for me, but when they do, I know that whoever finds this will know that they are in grave danger. I've embedded a code at the bottom of this page, linking you to my work. I had to scan every document I'd gotten then burned it, or I would be long dead by now. Please take into consideration that by clicking on the link below, you are now subjecting yourself to die at their hands. They're here, in the building. It's only minutes before they find me._

Sherlock clicked on the link below, without even asking you or Imogen if you were okay with it.

"You've doomed us now, you arrogant git!" You glare at him, whispering.

"Imogen, is it?" Imogen, please shut the door." Sherlock doesn't look up, while Imogen gets up to close the door, but John, Lestrade and other police officers enter the room.

"Sherlock, they've sealed off the exits." Lestrade storms over to where Sherlock is reading the documents. You refuse to look at them.

"Ms. Calder–"

"Just call me Sophie."

"Sophie, where is the office of Robert Claymore, MP?"

"Two floors up, why?"

"He's next." Sherlock looks to you, them emails the documents from the computer to himself. He pulls it up on his phone. "Show me the way."

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?" John says, blocking yours and Sherlock's exit.

"A national emergency in which anyone involved in the nuclear warheads being built in Russia will die and London will be nothing more than a radioactive hole in the ground!" Sherlock explained and pushed John aside. You lead the way for Sherlock, and John follows you both. Lestrade and his officers stand in confusion behind, and they take care of Jane's body.

"Nuclear bombs in Russia?" you ask, leading the way up the stairs. "Is that what all this is about?"

"It says here that they're meant for London, Paris, Berlin, Madrid, New York City, Beijing and Tokyo." Sherlock replies, looking at his phone.

"Those are all the biggest cities of the world's superpowers."

"Yes, and Russia wants to take over the world. Now would you please hurry, Mr. Claymore may be dead already." You run up the stairwell faster. Sherlock and John are directly behind you, eager to get to Robert Claymore before he's dead. A bullet whizzes past your ear.

"Get down!" Sherlock grabs you and John by the collars and pulls you both down to the floor. "Sophie, right now you are the most important person to keep alive. So it would be very kind of you KEEP DOWN."

"It's not like I wanted him to shoot me!" you retort. Sherlock pulls out his phone.

"There is an itinerary in these documents. 3:00–Matt, 5:00–Allison, 5:00–Jane, 5:10–Robert, 5:30–Sophie." Sherlock read from his phone.

"Why me? I don't know anything!" your eyes water. John places a comforting hand on your shoulder, but Sherlock keeps looking into your eyes.

"You must know something. Allison wrote about you in the documents, you are the post important piece in the puzzle. What can that possibly mean?"

"I don't know! She hardly told me anything! And now I'm going to die in twenty minutes and I don't know _anything!_" That's when you break.

"Sophie Calder, I promise that I will not let you die today, you got that?" You only nod in reply. "I got my first death threat at 21. I'm 33, and very much alive. How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Sophie, you will live to be at least twenty–nine. So since Mr. Claymore is most likely dead by now, will you please show me where I can call my brother in a location where I won't get shot?"

"What could Mycroft do?" John rolls his eyes.

"John, you forget that he is the British Government." Sherlock says. You stand up on weak knees, but not tall enough to be seen over the railing of the stairwell. You lead John and Sherlock down to a utility closet on your floor.

"Hello brother…well, it's a matter of national importance…are you aware that the parliament building has been taken hostage by Russian terrorists?...goodbye Mycroft." Sherlock's brief conversation with his brother leaves him with an aura of confidence.

"Why didn't you call the police?" You cross your arms.

"I told you, my brother is the British Government." Sherlock puts his phone away. Hen he does, your cellular goes off. You answer the call.

"Step out of the closet, Ms. Calder."


	3. 22210214

**Here's the third chapter. It's a bit of a cliffhanger. Enjoy!**

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><p>"Step out of the closet, Ms. Calder." Says a husky voice with a thick Russian accent.<p>

"What do you want with me?" You reply into the phone. Sherlock's eyes widen.

"You have some information that we want, and you aren't supposed to know. Please step out of the closet so I can kill you."

"And if I don't?"

"Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson will die, as well as you. You can save their lives by sacrificing your own." The line goes dead.

You already know what to do. Sherlock tries to hold you back, but you open the door, exposing just yourself to a man holding a very large gun.

"Want me to make you pretty like Matt and Allison?" the Russian man smirks.

"Why do you want me dead?" You ask with a mask of confidence.

"You have too much knowledge." The tall blond man rubs a smudge off his handgun.

"Knowledge of WHAT?" you yell at him. All of the sudden, you head a gunshot. Blood spatters in your face, and the Russian terrorist drops dead before you. Sherlock grabs your hand and leads you down the hall, John in tow with a gun in his hand. He takes the Russian's gun and catches up to you.

"Thank you, John." You kiss his cheek.

"Hey. It was my idea!" Sherlock scowls.

"Thank you, Sherlock." You stand up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Despite his paleness, his skin is very warm, and soft. You lean back to your heels when you realize you've kissed his cheek long enough. Sherlock's cheeks are bright red, and you feel yours are the same. "You're still an arrogant git." You tease. Sherlock's face turns even redder.

"He wasn't the only terrorist, there is more. One on every exit, too." John says to break you and Sherlock out of the tension.

"And they all think I know something I don't." You sigh.

"Is there _anything_ that Allison told you that could _possibly_ be this thing they're looking for?" Sherlock asks you, his face no longer red.

"If there is, I don't know." You sigh. "Fifteen minutes until I die. I thought I'd be a little more scared, dying."

"I'm used to it." Sherlock says. You realize he's still holding onto your hand.

"I don't see how you could. It's not very fun at all." You say. Then you start to laugh. "I never thought I'd say it, 'Dying isn't fun.' And now I'm laughing about it!" you crack up. Sherlock covers your mouth with his gloved hand.

"Don't attract attention to yourself, it will only end badly."

"Mrphm." You say in agreement, muffled by Sherlock's glove. He removes it.

"All the other MP's are in huge trouble as you're alive. We have to get to Lestrade before you–" Sherlock stops talking. But you know what he means. You are going to die in fifteen minutes, and as long as you are alive everyone else will die.

You cellular rings again.

"Hello?" you ask.

"Give me the information and you might live." Another Russian voice says on the other line, but this time it's a woman's voice.

"I don't have any information." You say back.

"Are you sure? What do you think, Tabitha, does she have the information we need?" the Russian woman says, and you hear crying in the background. _Tabitha. They have Tabitha._ Your heart drops into your stomach, and the taste of bile rises in your throat.

"Leave Tabitha alone. I don't have the information."

"We know you have the information. You have five minutes to meet me in the ground floor of the atrium or Tabitha dies." The line clicks dead.

"Sherlock, tell me everything about this project that Allison worked on."

He pulls out his phone, and hands it to you. You read through all the information, while John runs back to Jane's office to warn Lestrade about what is to come. You read as you climb down the 3 large flights of stairs.

"Sophie!" Sherlock tries to grab your hand.

"What?"

"For somebody who doesn't want to die, you sure are ready to risk your life for others'."

"You did." You say, remembering only fifteen minutes ago when he threw himself in front of you in case the sniper was still shooting.

"It's my job."

"You are a detective, not a bodygruard." You reply. Sherlock is speechless, but you shake yourself out of his grip and continue down the stairs.

"You don't even know what they want from you!" He says. You keep going, scrolling through the documents on Sherlock's phone. Something catches your eye. It's a note that Allison had typed in.

_2012/2/16 5:02pm– I have the code to Sophie today. She doesn't get it, but she has it. It's incredibly dangerous of me to bring her into this, but I must. She is the only person smart enough to figure it out of necessary. All she has to do is remember our inside joke._

"Inside joke? We have so many!" you kneel down on the landing so you can close your eyes and think. _Inside jokes…okay, so there's the banana man, "angry puppy," e=MP squared, "burbon on my number line"_

"Burbon on my number line!" you shout, eyes wide open. Sherlock looks at you strangely.

"Burbon on my number line?" He raises an eyebrow at you.

"Allison was really drunk at this party, and started singing 'burbon on my number line' over and over, just those words."

"So?"

"'Burbon' on a number line! Every letter has a corresponding number. The word 'burbon' on a number line is 2-22-10-2-14!" you exclaim, at a whisper level.

"That must be some sort of code for nuclear arms." He takes his phone back from you to call Mycroft. You check your wallet. One minute until Tabitha dies. You stand up.

Sherlock stands up too. He pulls out the gun John took from the Russian and gives it to you.

"Take care of yourself. I'll be right here." Gingerly, you take the gun. His hand touches yours as you exchange the gun. Knowing that you won't make it out of this alive, you stand up on your tiptoes and press your mouth to his. After a second, you pull away and run down the stairs, leaving a stunned Sherlock behind you.

Flying down the stairs, gun hidden in your coat pocket. You reach the ground floor of the atrium, and you see Tabitha on the ground, red laser dots all over her. Your cellular rings.

"I'm here."

"I know." The Russian woman says over the phone. "Tell me the code or you and Tabitha will die."

You fondle the gun in your pocket. 2-22-10-2-14. The numbers run over and over in your head. Sherlock's voice is in your head, telling you that he's right there. You look around, but you can't see him on the stairwell.

Sucking in a deep breath, you are about to say the code. The doors all around you burst open, dozens of police officers and soldiers in full combat uniforms rush in. The red laser dots disappear from Tabitha, and you run to her. The soldiers run up the stairs, and you look around the edges of the atrium for Sherlock. You realize that the other line on the cellular has gone dead.

You feel great relief that it's finally over. For a split second, you see a red dot on the floor next to you. A sharp pain shoots through your back to your chest, and you can't breathe. Your vision goes black until–

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><p><strong>To be continued<strong>


	4. Looking Presentable

**Heeeey guys! Here's chapter 4 :) So Sherlock is a little OOC, but that's okay, because I wouldn't have a story without that.**

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><p>Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.<p>

This is the sound that plagues your eardrums as you wake up. Your chest hurts, and you know that you look awful.

The nurses say that you just woke up today. You have been in a coma for an entire month, recovering from a gunshot to the lung. You're still too weak to breathe on your own, hence why you have a breathing tube in your chest feeding you oxygen. You can move your arms and legs and eat, but only just barely.

You press the "nurse call" button. A nurse arrives seconds later.

"Yes Ms. Calder?"

"Can you hold a mirror up to me?" you ask. The nurse looks at you strangely, but takes a small hanging mirror off the wall and holds it up to your face. "Oh, I look awful."

"Ms. Calder, a man is on his way to visit you." Another nurse tells you.

"What's his name?"

"Sherlock Holmes." She says. You're shocked–he remembers you? After all this time?

You turn to the nurse holding the mirror. "You have to make me look pretty." You demand. She nods with a curt smile, probably assuming that you fancy Sherlock, and leaves. A minute later, she comes back with a large purse, and pulls out a hairbrush for you to brush your hair. As you do that, the nurse goes to your private bathroom to get a wet washcloth for you to wash your face. You look at yourself in the mirror again, and you deem yourself presentable. You've lost a lot of weight in the time that you were in a coma, and it's visible in your hollow cheeks. You run your hands down the sides of your body, and you notice that your waistline has shrunk dramatically, your ribcage and hipbones very pronounced.

"Thank you." You smile at the nurse, who smiles back and leaves you alone in the room.

A minute later, a familiar face pokes itself in the door.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asks you. You shrug.

"Oh, you know, just woke up from a month-long coma, almost died, the last thing I remember is all those soldiers rushing in." You smile at him. Sherlock brings a chair over to your bed and sits down.

"You saved the world that day." He says after a few seconds.

"No, I nearly died. Theres a big difference."

"You cracked the code, which Mycroft used to take down Russian communications, stopping them from building any nuclear missiles. You saved the world, Sophie. Never forget that."

"Am I still an MP?" You ask. Right now, that is the most important thing to you.

"No." Sherlock says bluntly. "They didn't know of you would ever wake up. You were in pretty bad shape." He takes your hand. "You really scared me."

"You only knew me for twenty-five minutes." You try to laugh, slightly impaired by the tube in your chest.

"No, you knew me for twenty-five minutes. I knew you for a month."

You suck in a breath, or at least tried to, since all your breathing is being done by the machine that feeds oxygen through the hole in your chest.

"So what's happened in the world after I blacked out?" you ask, wiggling your fingers in the hand that Sherlock isn't holding.

"Well, the terrorists are on maximum security prison, the UN has seized absolute control over Russia, you're going to receive a Nobel Peace Prize…"

"WHAT!" your heart monitor beeps faster.

"You saved the world, I told you that. No, before you rudely interrupted me, I was going to tell you that Tabitha has taken over your position of MP, then there's the promotion of you to cabinet member since you're awake–"

"WHAT!"

"Please do stop interrupting. On, then your sister met John when we came to visit sleeping you, and let me tell you you're really unattractive when you sleep. Your sister Mary and John are now dating. How come her surname is Morstan and yours is Calder?"

"She was previously married."

"Ah. Now anyways, you asked me in your sleep to have a drink when you get out of here–"

"I did not!" you protest, even though you want to.

"You most certainly did!" Sherlock laughs at you. You grip his hand tighter, as he continues talking. "You kissed me, before running off and risking your life to save your friend. Honestly, I would kiss you back now, but you look like hell."

"Hey, I saved the world, I'm allowed to look ugly." You slap his hand with your free hand. "I can't believe it was that easy."

"You're brilliant."

"Not really. I'm just good with puzzles." You say, and before Sherlock can reply, John enters with a bouquet of flowers, your sister Mary with him.

"Sophie!" Mary squeals, and runs over to your other side. She hugs you lightly, being careful of all the tubes that are plugged into you. Mary holds your left hand, and Sherlock your right. John gives Sherlock a look, then sits down next to Mary. Sherlock lets go of your right hand.

"How long have you been awake?" John asks.

"Just 5 hours. I was pretty drugged up and delirious during that time anyways. I was only fully conscious about an hour before Sherlock arrived." You answer. Your chest hurts from all the talking, and you press on the "pain pump" to get more drugs to ease said pain. "I'm actually very glad I was out all those days, that way I could recover a lot more. Oh, here come the drugs." You chuckle. Mary and John laugh, and Mary kisses your forehead before they leave. Sherlock stays behind, and takes your hand.

"You're pretty." You say, the drugs removing the filter between your brain and your mouth. Sherlock smiles, a smile you've never seen in the thirty-five minutes you have known him. But he's known you an entire month, and he knows more about you than you know him.

"I think the drugs are a little too much." He laughs at you.

"I saved the world, and you saved my life, so you saved the world twice." You start to slur your words. Sherlock sees that your finger has never left the pain pump, and he removes it.

"Get some rest, Sophie." Sherlock leans over and kisses your forehead, as you drift off into narcotic sleep.

-.-.-.-.-

When you wake up, Sherlock is sleeping on the couch across the room. You call the nurse in silently. When she sees Sherlock sleeping, she tiptoes over to you.

"Yes Ms. Calder?"

"Do I look presentable?" you ask. The nurse picks a hairbrush out of her pocket and brushes down some tangles in your hair. "Thanks." The nurse leaves you.

You rub your hands together, and pick up your cellular from the bedside table. The clock suggests that you have been asleep for 3 hours.

You consider calling Tabitha, but doing so would disturb Sherlock's nap. You read the newspaper that sits on your bedside table, taking in the news. A month has passed, so you have missed a lot of events. There's a small article reporting on your condition, saying that the doctors doubt that you'll wake up.

"Bollocks." You laugh a bit. Looking up, you finally notice a large corkboard covered with hundreds of articles from dozens of newspapers from around the world in many different languages, all clipped out and pinned to the board. Front page headlines, columns, small articles and big articles, all outlining what you had done that horrible day. If you weren't hooked up to ten different tubes, you would get up to look at it.

You notice that Sherlock is looking at you. Not having to suck in a breath, but attempting to anyways, you meet his eyes.

"You're awake." You say at the same time. He looks at the bulletin board, and walks over to it, taking off the biggest article on the board, a front-page headline with a picture of the terrorists being led out of the building in straightjackets. You read it intently when he hands it over to you. It talks about how you saved the world, and of you would ever wake up from a coma, how you would become an honorary cabinet member when you did, how you're going to receive a Nobel Peace Prize, and a couple of interviews–one of Sherlock Holmes, one of John Watson, and one of Tabitha Westlake.

"Should I expect a press interview now that I'm awake?" you hand Sherlock the newspaper headline.

"Not until you're well enough to leave the hospital, but yes, you should be expecting multiple interviews. Oh, and I spoke with the nurse, she says that you can leave in a week."

"Seriously?"

"You were in a coma for a month, which is plenty of time for your vitals to recover. The extra week is just getting you back on your feet, literally. They're going to start unplugging your tubes and getting you walking."

"Oh." You nod your head. "When they do that, would you mind not being in the room? I mean, there's going to be a lot of my body being exposed, and I've only known you for three hours and thirty-five minutes." You smile, and laugh successfully.

-.-.-.-

Two days later, your breathing tubes and waste tubes are removed, allowing you to walk around. You also get to shower, but you have to lean on a walker and carry your IV feed on a mobile rack everywhere. After showering, you inspect yourself–a huge scar goes down the right side of your chest where the breathing tube was. You turn around and look over your shoulder–there's another much larger scar on your back where you were shot and operated on. The skin isn't rough, but smooth and well healed. You pull on a hospital gown and the robe that covers your backside, and a pair of slip-proof slippers. You lean forward onto your walker and grab hold of your IV rack. It's hard to move around with both, moving the IV rack then the walker, IV then walker, until you make it back to the bed. Sherlock enters your room.

"Feeling better?" He asks, sitting down next to you. He hands a yellow tulip to you.

"A bit, thank you." You lean your head on his shoulder.

"Why don't we take a walk around the hospital, stretch your leg muscles?"

"Sure." You say, and lean forward on the walker. Sherlock holds your mobile IV rack as you move. The two of you tell your nurse where you're going, and you make your way down the hall.

"You're making a miraculous recovery."

"Thank you."

"Excited to get out of here in 5 days?"

"I'm excited to start working in the cabinet room." You reply. A much as you appreciate Sherlock's attention, you wish that he would just cool down on how you "saved the world" and all that. You don't care for the Nobel Peace Prize, or the million pound grant, or all the appreciation and attention; you only care about working on the cabinet with the Prime Minister.

"The nation was on edge the entire time you were asleep. Everyone was worried about you."

"No need. People only know me because of my previous MP status."

"Your family was worried about you."

"They always are."

"I was worried about you."

You stop walking. Sherlock Holmes, the great, heartless, and arrogant Sherlock Holmes, was worried about you? Sherlock Holmes who seemed so uncaring when somebody dies right in front of him, but cares so much for people who risk their lives for the sake if others?

You can't stand up on tiptoes, due to your weak body, but you can reach up and pull Sherlock down lower by his shoulder, so his face is level with yours, soft lips touching each other lightly. His free hand reaches under your arm to support you as your knees go weak. When you keep dropping, he catches you with his other arm, letting go of the IV rack. Sherlock is the first to pull away.

"You okay?" he continues to hold you up as you fumble for your walker.

"Yup, just a little tired. Can we walk back?"

"Sure." Sherlock take hold of your IV rack with one hand, and shoves the other in his pocket as you make your way back to your hospital room.

-.-.-.-

Sherlock stayed with you until after dinner, when you ate crummy hospital food and he had a turkey sandwich form the café on the ground floor.

After Sherlock leaves, you are given access to a laptop the nurses brought in, so you decide to google Sherlock's name. You know quite a bit about Sherlock, but you don't know a ton about the work he's done.

You find his website–which is really kind of boring. John's website actually has all of his cases on it. You read case after case after case, learning more and more. His ultimate enemy appears to be a man named "Jim Moriarty," who to you seems like a total git. Not an arrogant git like Sherlock, but a dangerous git. There's a case dealing with a dominatrix named Irene, which leaves you a bit jealous, but when you find out that she's dead you feel better about yourself. Then there's the case with Baskerville, which keenly interests you, but it's so top secret that there's hardly anything on it. You suppose that being a cabinet member, you do get to know more about Baskerville at some point. And then there's the Russian Terrorist case in the Parliament building, telling about the murders of 3 people who investigated the planning of a Russian nuclear attack against the world. Then there's the bit about how you cracked the code, saved the world and everyone in the building, and there's the shooting. But there's more after that, describing what happened to you after it happened. Sherlock had seen the sniper and was attempting to take him out, but you were shot before he got to him, and Sherlock killed the sniper. Army soldiers rushed you off to the nearest hospital before Sherlock got back to you, but he was with you as soon as you came out of surgery 10 hours later, and how he visited every day that you were in a coma.

You realize that you are in love with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p><strong>To be continued<strong>


	5. A Keeper

**It's a pretty short chapter, but here it is nonetheless!**

* * *

><p><span>4 weeks later<span>

"No, I _won't_ tell you that happened at the meeting!" you say into your phone. You just got back to your flat after your very first meeting with the cabinet, where the Prime Minister Harry Tweed made you a member. Next month, you receive your Nobel Peace Prize, and last week you received a knighthood and one hundred thousand pounds from the Queen herself.

As soon as you got home, you had called your boyfriend, Sherlock. The two of you began your relationship while you were still in the hospital, the day after you kissed him in the hallway.

You go to your room, still chatting with him on the phone. You need to change out of your pencil skirt, blouse, heels and blazer before you flip a cap. You miss when you could wear sweaters and pants at the Parliament building, instead of having to wear a skirt and blazer to the cabinet meetings.

You also have a lot more private paperwork. No assistants to do it for you; every project you have to work alone on.

"I have a lot of paperwork to do tonight, what about you?" you ask while removing your shoes.

"This case is proving difficult, I'll bring my nicotine patches. I wish I could smoke around you."

"My lungs don't like the added stress, remember?" you tease. Smoke, smog or steamy air makes it difficult for your right lung to function. Running is greatly frowned upon, but you do it anyways out of impatience when going from room to room.

"Right. Should I bring dinner?"

"You eat?" you tease.

"I meant for you, the patches will hold me over."

"Okay, come over anytime. Just pick me up a salad from the deli, nothing messy."

Sherlock arrives half an hour later at 6:00, coffee in one hand and a salad in a clear plastic box in the other.

Your work is already spread out all over the living room floor, with you in the center of it. Sherlock leans over and hands you your dinner, planting a kiss on the top of your head, before removing his coat and flopping himself down on your couch and slapping four nicotine patches on his arms. He removes his blazer, leaving him in his dark purple shirt that isn't buttoned up all the way and his black trousers. He's well dressed in comparison to you–blue jeans and an Oxford University sweatshirt (that you borrowed from Sherlock after a night at his flat), your hair pulled into a half-assed bun.

You're halfway done at 8:00, and Sherlock still remains on the couch, muttering to himself, and sometimes asking you basic geography questions about Liverpool.

At 9:45, you finish your paperwork, so you put it all into your briefcase and climb onto the couch next to Sherlock. You lie down next to him, draping your right arm over his body.

"You are very distracting."

"Good." You murmur, breathing his scent in. He lifts his arm up to wrap around you, so as to make you more comfortable. You snuggle in closer to Sherlock, tucking your head under his chin. The narrow couch proves to be quite easy for two people to lie on, even if you are lying practically on top of him.

Just as you get comfortable, a creak down the hall makes you and Sherlock jolt up on the couch.

"I'm sure it's just the building settling." You reassure him, and yourself.

"This building doesn't settle, it's built at a higher elevation with a concrete foundation. It was only built last year, not long enough for it to begin to settle; my conclusion? There is something down the hall."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, you're scaring me."

Sherlock ignores you, and slides his body out from under yours to go down the hallway adjacent to the living room. You try to grab his arm to stop him, but he shakes you off. You watch nervously as he goes down the hall slowly, stepping quietly. He turns his body toward your bedroom. A look of shock blankets his face as an arm trust a gun against his right shoulder, the tiny sound of a silencer clicking, followed by a spray of blood from his left shoulder.

You try to scream as Sherlock falls to the ground, but a black bag covers your vision, and the smell of chemicals lulls you to sleep.

-.-.-.-.-

"The Russians did a bad job of killing you two." A strange voice says, as you wake up. You lie next to Sherlock's body, warm but covered in blood. He's barely conscious.

"Sherlock!" you crawl over to his right side to try and address his bullet wound. You rip off a part of your sweatshirt, wrapping it into a thick, flat shape. As you press it onto the would, Sherlock cries out in agony, but the pressure seems to stop the bloodflow.

"There there, shh, we're going to fix you up, okay?" you use your left hand to stroke his cheek, wet with tears and sweat. You wonder how long you have been asleep. "Just stay calm, you're okay."

"So, the great Sherlock Holmes has to be consoled by a coma patient?" the unfamiliar voice rings around the small, dark room. The walls are painted black, with no windows or doors at all. The floor is solid concrete (except for the pooling blood under Sherlock's body), and the ceiling isn't visible, it's so dark. The only light source available is a small lamp that sits on the floor. The voice seems to be coming from an above speaker system.

You ignore the man's voice, and notice a lot of blood coming from Sherlock's left leg.

"Sherlock, hey, I need you to hold this here, okay?" you pick up his left hand to put on the compress. He barely nods. _He's so weak, _you worry. You move his hair of his face, and rip more of your sleeve off to compress on his other bullet wound.

"She sure is a keeper, isn't she Sherly?"

"Would you shut up?" you yell at the ceiling.

"Wrong choice of words, Ms. Calder." The voice is angry this time. The walls shift closer.

"What the hell is this? Who are you? You are dealing with a member of the British Government, and in holding me hostage you are now made an enemy of the state!"

"Sherlock may have mentioned me. I'm his best friend."

"Moriarty." Sherlock's weak voice is barely audible. You move over to his upper body, and use your unripped sleeve to wipe the sweat off his face.

"Aww, Sherly, I wanted her to figure it out for herself!" The voice starts out soft and playful, then turns into an angry shout. A gunshot rings from above, resulting in a spray of blood from Sherlock's right thigh, and a loud, low-pitched scream from Sherlock's mouth as he writhes in pain. The walls shift closer.

"What do you want!" you scream, and rip off more of your sweatshirt to press on the new wound.

"I told Sherlock I would burn the heart out of him, so that is exactly what I'm going to do. Torture him, then make him watch you die. He'll be unable to save the only woman he has ever loved."

"Have you ever listened to yourself? You're s serial psychopath. There's no point for you to keep doing this!"

Sherlock's body starts to shake, as he turns extremely pale.

"He's going into shock! Let us go!" you hold Sherlock down by the chest, wishing that you had some medical experience.

"Say please."

"Please!" you roll your eyes.

"Say 'Pretty please, Mr. Moriarty!'"

"PRETTY PLEASE, MR. MORIARTY!" you yell. The walls fall outward, to reveal that you are in the basement of an abandoned warehouse. Beyond the now fallen walls, sitting on the floor next to another lamp, is Sherlock's cell phone. You run for it, and immediately call John.

"Sherlock? You've been gone for fifteen hours, where are you?"

"John, it's me, Sophie. Moriarty has us in a warehouse, I don't know where. Sherlock's hurt, and he's going into shock."

"I'll ask Mycroft to triangulate your signal. Get him as warm as possible, and make sure to keep pressing on his wounds in they're still bleeding."

"He has 3 gunshot wounds!"

"Shit. Just do your best." John hangs up to call Mycroft, and you pocket the phone to run back to Sherlock. You take off your sweatshirt and lay it over his chest. His shoulder has stopped bleeding, but both his leg wounds still are.

"Sherlock, look at me. I want you to stay with me. I'm not going to leave you, so don't leave me." You press on the wounds. Your hands and wrists are covered in his blood, as well as your jeans. Sherlock's breaths are uneven, and he moans in pain at the pressure you're putting on his wounds.

"Just breathe. Breathe!" you demand. Tears start falling down your face in heavy drops. He's lost a lot of blood, and the chance of him surviving are slim.

Sirens sound from outside, and the footsteps of many people sound from the above level.

"Sherlock, they're here. You're going to be okay." You stroke his face. His eyes land on you.

"I love you."

His eyes close.


	6. As Time Marches On

**Sorry it's suck a short chapter, but the next one is REALLY long!**

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, stay with–stay with me!" you cry in frustration. You feel his pulse, and then start CPR. "Stay. With. Me." You cry in between each time you pound his chest. Paramedics run down the stairs, and place Sherlock on a gurney. Another paramedic holds you back from running to him. She lets you go as soon as they're up the stairs, and you run.<p>

They won't let you in the ambulance, but the police car with John and Lestrade takes you to Scotland Yard.

.

"Please let me go see him" you bed Lestrade. They let you shower, and gave you a change of clothes–a gray crewneck t-shirt, black jeans, and black sneakers.

"He's still in intensive care, the only person who can go see him is Mycroft." John explained.

"Can't you make an exception? I work directly under the Prime Minister, for lord's sake, I should be allowed some diplomatic rights!"

"Sophie, you can't see him."

"What if he's dying?" You yell at Lestrade. "I didn't get to tell him I loved him back!"

"You can't see him!" John yells at you, the first time you have ever heard him raise his voice. Taken aback, you sit down at Lestrade's desk. Lestrade is leaning against the door, whole John sits in the chair in front of Lestrade's desk.

"When can I see him?" you finally ask, when you're not crying. John and Lestrade share a quick glance, but you don't see.

"When he's ready." Lestrade says to you. "I'll take you home, Sophie. He'll call you when he's ready."

-.-

Lestrade drops you off at your flat in his patrol car and checks all the doors and windows to make sure they're locked.

"Get some rest, go to work, and relax. Sherlock will call you." Lestrade pats your shoulder, and leaves your flat with Sherlock's coat, blazer and scarf.

You curl up on the couch with your face in the pillow, which still smelled like Sherlock's shampoo. Sobbing, you hold it tight to your body

Sherlock doesn't call.

.

The next day

You haven't slept. You call Sherlock, but it goes straight to voicemail after just two rings.

Looking back, you remember your month-long relationship with Sherlock. The dates, the cases he would let you in on, the late-night meetups, the steamy romances in your rooms.

You have asked for a leave off of work.

.

One Month Later

You have been worrying. But what kills your worry is when you see a TV report about Sherlock being a fake, and committing suicide by jumping off the roof of St. Bart's hospital.

You think about calling John, but neither he, Sherlock or Lestrade has contacted you in a month. And now, Sherlock is dead.

.

8 Months Later

You have forgotten Sherlock Holmes, and your new boyfriend of five months has been nothing but supportive of you. Until, of course, you caught him cheating on you.

The pain is intense now, but it will soon be over. Nothing but joy and happiness is coming your way.

.

1 Year Later

John and Mary are getting married today. It's the first time you'll be seeing John after almost two years. You hate his guts, but are glad to go to their wedding for Mary's sake. You take Lillian with you, she's good friends with Mary.

.

14 Years Later

You quit politics four years ago, after a full term as Prime Minister. You had to help Lillian, since she can't always take care of herself. She developed a nervous system disability, and it didn't help that you were almost never home with her.

One day, while Lillian was out of the house, you decide to take a bath.

You're 42 now, but still look 35. You eat healthy, exercise regularly, and do things to reduce stress, like taking relaxing baths.

There's a knock on the door of your (relatively new) town home (in the nicest neighborhood in London). Grunting, you step out of the warm bath, wrap yourself in a floor-length robe, and run down the two flights of stairs. The doorbell rings.

"I'm coming!" you yell, and open the door.

"Hello, Sophie."


	7. Catching Up

**And Chapter number 7! This one gets really interesting... stay tuned, I'm writing chapter 8 as I typed this one up!**

* * *

><p>"Hello, Sophie." Sherlock Holmes stands on your doorstep, looking hardly older than 40, but you know he would be 46. He is smiling, but you can't tell if he's forcing it or not. You slap him hard across the face.<p>

"What the hell? Is this a joke?" you scream at him. A passing neighbor looks at you strangely, so you pull Sherlock inside by his scarf.

"Ow!" He rubs his face.

"Fifteen years! For fifteen years I have been waiting for you to call me back, but you didn't/ They said you jumped off a fucking roof! Where the hell have you been?" you slap him again.

"Would you please stop!" Sherlock holds his hands out to block any more attacks on his face. "I faked my death because Moriarty was at large! I never called you because I loved you too much to see you get hurt again!"

"For fifteen years? Why did you even come back!" you yell at him.

"Moriarty is dead, Sophie, and his network is finally gone. He was going to kill everyone I loved and was friends with if I didn't do something!"

"One call–"

"Would have put your life at risk." He lifts up your hands, and you feel light and giddy, just as you would when you were in a relationship with him. "Did you at least live a good life?"

"No! I mean, yes, but it was very hard!" you shake your finger at him. All of the sudden, he gets his "detective face," and he looks around your foyer.

"There's a pair of shoes by the door, but they're not your size; these are 8's and you're a 9; multiple coats, suggesting that more than just you live here, also multiple hats," he enters the living room, which is adjacent to the foyer. "There are papers, school papers, on the coffee table; grading papers, possibly, I assume she works at a school."

"Who works at a school?"

"Your girlfriend, you're in a relationship!"

"Lillian isn't my girlfriend!" you laugh. "Why would she _ever_ be my girlfriend? I'm not in a relationship, not for fourteen years!" you keep laughing at how absurd the idea was to you, as you hold onto your robe tighter as you step around the couch to pick off a picture frame from the fireplace mantle. You bring it back to Sherlock. "Lillian is my daughter."

He looks at the photograph. It's of you and Lillian, smiling while on the beach. Lillian has your build, but her cheekbones are pronounced, eyes a pale blue instead of hazel, her hair is long and wavy like yours, but black as night.

"Lillian is also your daughter." You say, taking the photograph back from a very shocked looking Sherlock.

"What." He follows you to the fireplace mantle, where you put the frame back.

"She'll actually be home in an hour, if you want to talk to her."

"I don't have a daughter." He nervously laughs.

Oh please, Sherlock, grow up! We had a daughter. You faked your death when I was two months pregnant. John, Mary and Mycroft all know she's yours. Now get a grip, for god's sake, I'm the one who raised her for fifteen years!"

Sherlock sits down. You sit down next to him, and snake your hand into his. He laces his fingers with yours.

"It really sucked not having you here." You finally say. He doesn't reply. "I was made Prime Minister, served a full term. I didn't run again, just became a stay-at-home mum. I got to help her through a lot. She's a sociopath, like you. Got friends, though. She's out with them now."

"Does she know about me?"

"Only that you died. She doesn't know why; I didn't tell her. I don't believe that you're a fake. John explained a lot at the wedding. Mary an' him got married about two years after you faked your death."

"I did it for you. I mean–I didn't call you, for you, to save you, from me; well, from the danger I get into."

"I know." You say. Standing up, you let go of Sherlock's hand. "I'm going to get dressed. Don't want Lillian to come home to her mum in a bathrobe and a man calling himself her dead dad." You laugh as if it were a joke. You walk up the stairs to your bedroom, then your ensuite, then your closet. Pulling on some jeans, a tank top, and a cardigan, you speed back down the stairs to find that Sherlock was no longer in the living room. You hear the coffee maker whirring. You're thankful that your hair hasn't gone gray yet, because you still look young and flirty in your fit body. The jeans definitely show how you have kept in shape.

When you enter the kitchen, you see that Sherlock has removed his big coat and scarf. He's wearing a "Sherlock classic": black suit and dark blue silk button up, no tie. His body too has remained slim and ageless, but his hair as become salt and peppery, the pure midnight black curls a thing of the past.

"You look fit for 42."

"I'm liking the salt and pepper hair." You lean your back on the edge of the counter. He hands you a mug of steaming black coffee.

"I may show age, but I've never felt it." He scoffs, and drinks his coffee. "Does she do well in school? Lillian, I mean?"

"She skipped 3 grades. Would be a freshman in high school, but she's in the senior class. Got accepted to oxford, full ride for science. She has your brains, I'll tell you that."

"Good, I would settle for no less."

"Even if she were a straight F student you would still settle for her." You glare at him.

Moving slowly, Sherlock sets his coffee on the counter, then takes your coffee from your hands and sets it on the counter behind you. With gentle hands, he slowly pulls you closer to him by your hipbones. You feel your old love and passion for him as he pulls you in for a soft kiss. You place your hands at the base of his neck, pressing your lips further into his. Your fingers twine with his curly hair, while his hands move to your lower back, pulling your body further into his.

As your passion is transferred between two lips, you hear a familiar voice:

"Mum?"

Sherlock immediately steps back, as you whip your head to see Lillian looking at you, mouth wide open.

"Lillian." You breathe, running your fingers through your hair. Sherlock readjusts his suitcoat.

"Mum. Who is this?" She points an accusing finger towards Sherlock, and after looking at him, she gasps and staggers backwards. You run to her, and hold her before she falls. "No! He's dead! You said he was dead!"

"Lilly, Lilly," you both sink to your knees, Lillian clinging to you, while you rub her back. Her head is buried in the crook of your neck. "Calm down. Lilly, its okay."

"He's alive."

"I know sweetie." Lillian pulls herself away from you.

"How long have you known?"

"He only came to the house less than an hour ago." You smile, and run your thumb over your daughter's cheek. You pull her up, and reach behind you for Sherlock's hand. He takes it, and you pull him to you and Lillian. "Lilly, this is your father; Sherlock, this is your daughter, Lillian."

Lillian reaches out to touch Sherlock's face, but she shrinks away. Her face soon fills with rage.

"You abandoned me! You abandoned mum! You left her to have a baby all on her own, you arrogant git!" she screams at him, then runs from the kitchen.

"Lilly!" you call after her. Sherlock moves, but you stop him. "Stay here." You demand, coldly.

You run up to the 2nd floor, where Lillian's room is. She's locked the door.

"Lilly, can I come in?" you knock on the door softly.

"Is the male that provided the sperm for my creation with you?"

"No." You say through the door. There's a click and it's unlocked. You open the door and close it behind you. Lillian is already in the corner by the window; sitting in the 1960's egg chair she had begged you to get her.

"Why is he here?" she speaks through tear soaked eyes.

"Before I knew I was pregnant with you, there was a, crazy, man named Jim Moriarty. He hated your father, tried to kill him many times. He even tried to kill me. Your father was badly hurt, and he felt that he needed to stay away from me to keep me safe. Neither of us knew about you at the time. He faked his own death to save a lot of peoples' lives. For fourteen years he had to take down Moriarty's network, and prove himself innocent. But he's here now, and that's all that matters." You kneel down in front of her. "Lilly, he did it to save my life. Our lives. He may be an arrogant git, but the man has a heart."

"How can you just let him back into your life like this?"

"Because I love him, Lilly." You take your daughter's hand. "And he loves me. I never stopped loving him, and if you let him, he can love you too."

"But–"

"He has done nothing but good for this world, Lilly." You say sternly. "And you're listening at the door, aren't you?"

"That would be correct." Sherlock's deep voice comes from the other side of the door.

"Can he come in?" you ask Lillian quietly. She nods, and wipes away tears. Her facial expression returns to it's normal coldness. You stand up, and open the door. Sherlock enters, and crosses slowly to Lillian. He stops about 5 feet from her.

"So do you expect me to call you 'father' now?" Lillian crosses her arms.

"Lillian Holmes Calder, you do not sass." You scold her.

"Holmes?" Sherlock looks at you.

"I thought you were dead." You mutter. He simply nods, then looks down to Lillian.

"I don't expect you to accept me as your father, just accept me as a human being who will be living in your house and marrying your mother."

"What?" both you and Lillian look at him with raised eyebrows. Not an ideal proposal, but one nonetheless.

"Well, I did impregnate you and leave you waiting for me for fifteen years."

"Good enough for me."

"Are you serious mum? And you, 'father,' have you even told Uncle John that you're around? What about Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg?"

"Lestrade?" Sherlock turns to you with raised eyebrows.

"Long story." You say, planning to tell him later. "Lilly, why don't we talk more about this later? I think Sherlock needs to go talk to your uncles and aunt."

"Too late, already invited them to dinner tonight." He says, tapping in the keyboard of his mobile.

"Can I please have a few hours before I'm forced into a family reunion?"

"Of course." You kiss Lillian's forehead, and pull Sherlock out of her bedroom. When you close the door behind you, you go up to the 3rd floor, where your bedroom, bathroom, and closets are. "Okay, we have four hours until I need to start making dinner for guests I didn't invite." You open your bedroom door.

"Use the time to catch up?" Sherlock looks at you seductively.

"What else for?" you smile, and Sherlock picks you up, as so you wrap your legs around his waist. The two of you close the door behind you, to keep Lillian from hearing you "catching up"


End file.
